


(a so-called key to) greater magic

by Hth



Series: Pretty Good Universe [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Family, Lingerie, M/M, POV Quentin Coldwater, Writing, the very mildest of kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: Eliot's never known a version of Quentin who wasn't working on the damn book.  That's crazy, isn't it?  It feels impossible, but it's true.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Pretty Good Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686286
Comments: 20
Kudos: 122





	(a so-called key to) greater magic

**Author's Note:**

> In spite of the starting with a flashback, this is actually a post-PGY story, not a pre-PGY story! It's also my first foray into Quentin's POV in this reality, which I think is cool, and it's a story about writers and writing, which I know is deeply, deeply uncool. Hopefully they balance each other out.... 
> 
> (Also, if it wasn't clear before, PGY definitely takes place in a world without Covid-19, because fuck me, I guess, for writing a story set *four months* in the future, science fiction is a tough gig I guess.)

In March of 2019, Quentin broke up with the woman he thought he was going to marry because she maybe didn't want kids ever, and definitely didn't want Quentin's specific kid at that specific moment, and it was – Quentin guesses, the second-worst thing that ever happened to him, sandwiched neatly between his father's death at the top of the list and his first girlfriend's death (with the rest of the Top Ten filled out by weirdly inconsequential, mostly self-inflicted crises that involved some combination of screaming fights with Julia and locked mental wards). It was a bad time, is the thing.

But weirdly, he was – not in a bad place, overall, in March of 2019. For the first time in maybe his whole life, he had a plan that was actually _his_ plan, and goals for the future that were more than just things other people told him would make him happy. Yeah, it hurt to know he wasn't going to do any of those things with Alice; it hurt a lot, and he cried a lot and took maybe a little more shadily obtained Valium than reputable doctors, in Quentin's extensive experience on the receiving end of psychopharmacology, tended to prescribe. It wasn't great, but in between the really shitty bouts, he found himself – just, excited. Hopeful. _About his life_ , which was heady and unfamiliar and pretty addictive, actually.

So in the ten weeks between becoming single and moving halfway across the country, while he finished the last six credits he needed to officially graduate, Quentin decided to see if he could keep this _positive thoughts about his future_ momentum going. He was officially starting his PhD program in the fall, so that was the next step locked down in terms of his career, and he'd already talked to Carla about having Teddy come up to spend a week with him in West Lafayette once he got settled, so that was forward motion on that goal. But if he was going to be in a new place, without his girlfriend or any of his friends, he felt like he had to take a little more responsibility than usual for, like, his work-life balance. Nobody was going to drag him out anymore, and there was nobody he wanted to stay in for, so the threat of just becoming a weird, withdrawn shut-in wasting his life being anxious and belligerent on Twitter with people who had stupid Star Wars opinions was very real.

The opportunity to expand his horizons, however, felt equally real. He just needed somewhere constructive to put all of this incredibly healthy, self-actualized energy he'd unleashed by saying out loud the actual words _I'm going to say yes to Purdue, and if you don't think you can come with me, I hate that but I understand_. Quentin was already well outside the box of things he thought he could shove himself headfirst into, so why not embrace the adventure? He'd always told himself he wanted to have at least one big adventure before he died.

He spent a whole afternoon at the coffeeshop, journaling about his life goals with a large iced London Fog by his elbow, which seemed a little Peak White Girl to Quentin, but then all his white girl friends were way, way better at self-actualization than he was, so maybe that was a sign he was finally on the right track. He tried to take the positive approach, he really did, but what he actually had by the end of the day was a list of his biggest fears about the future.

Which, okay, that wasn't failure. That was a productive avenue to explore, right? Fear teaches you what you don't want, so Quentin figured he could just take them on one at a time and come up with actionable strategies for not ending up with those things he didn't want. Basic logic.

The fears tended to cluster into two groups, so Quentin circled the parts that reduced to _I'll be lonely_ and drew sharp squares around everything that looked more like _I'll get lost in my head and have another breakdown_. It all seemed more manageable that way. Just two fears – who doesn't have two fears? That barely even qualified as anxiety, that was just the human condition.

_Lonely_ seemed like the hardest problem to solve, because by definition you couldn't really solve it by yourself, but at the same time it felt less fraught to Quentin. Worst-case scenario, he'd just be lonely for a while; maybe it would be easier than it sounded. Maybe it would be a nice change of pace, as long as he didn't go overboard with it. He could...get a cat. Cats were low-maintenance. James's mom was a Cat Lady; there had to be at least four in the house every time Quentin went over there, and they all seemed to like him pretty well. Maybe Quentin had a gift for cats. It wasn't exactly a substitute for – you know, Alice, but it did sound nice, having something that would lie in his lap and purr. Alice never really did that.

The cat was a definite maybe, but Quentin didn't kid himself that it was a permanent solution to the problem. The stark truth remained that if he ever wanted to have, like, companionship or even possibly sex ever again, he was going to have to meet human strangers. A daunting prospect, yes, but – he'd just have to ease into it. There were probably new-student type events for graduate students just like for undergrads, right? There almost had to be. Quentin would just have to – you know, go to those. And if there were ever a crowd that Quentin thought he might be the right level of awkward and geeky and overly serious to socialize with effectively, it had to be philosophy grad students, hopefully? But also, work-life balance was not well-served by socializing _only_ with his cohort at school, so. On-line dating, maybe? Yeah, why not? He thought it was fairly normal to spend a little while texting with people you met online rather than meeting up right away, and texting was Quentin's comfort zone, to the degree that Quentin had a comfort zone.

The idea of dating was-- Well, he'd never really done it before, but that was the whole point, right? Capitalizing on the potential of this moment of transition. Opening himself up to a new life, less constrained by everyone who already knew him, everyone who carried expectations of who Quentin was. The more Quentin thought about it, the more he was – excited about the idea, even the inevitable awkward and embarrassing parts. He'd never been a person who went on dates before, but he _could_ be. He could be if he _decided_ to be. And there was really no pressure, because he wasn't ready to get serious with anyone, not with so much else in his life to focus on, and so much of Alice still weighing on his heart. So even a bad date would be just – a bad date. If he went into everything with the attitude that he was just exploring options, then he kind of literally couldn't fail.

So okay. He would say yes to any department-related social things for – what, at least until midterms? That felt like giving it a fair shot. He would do some research on how to write a good Tinder profile. He'd take all the opportunities he could, just to see what it was like. God, there were really – so many things he'd always been – curious to try. That could be a whole separate list, if Quentin wanted it to be. If he found anyone who was interested in – trying things with him, which obviously wasn't guaranteed, but--

But, you know, why did he have to think about it like that? Maybe Quentin didn't always make the best first impression, particularly when he was nervous, and maybe he had it on good authority that he was incredibly hard to live with, particularly when he was undermedicated, but there was actually a zone in the middle there where Quentin tended to – kind of thrive? High school was high school, but at least in college, he'd had classmates he was friendly with, people he played D&D with, people who thought he was smart and funny and a good listener. He wasn't an unlikeable person, fundamentally, and he thought he was also – like, not _stunningly_ attractive, but attractive. Yeah, his life was messy at the deep structural level, but just as a person to hang out with sometimes and maybe hook up with? Quentin thought people could pretty easily do worse than him, and someone was bound to agree, right?

To improve his odds, he thought he should try not to seem really needy, so he broke out his credit card and splashed out on the insanely expensive Bad Dragon dildo he'd been telling himself was a ridiculous waste of money for the last six months, because you know? Fuck it. He was _self-actualizing_ and getting to know the version of himself that wasn't in a serious relationship and like the song says, you can't hurry love, but you also don't have to wait on anyone else's permission to have a sexual adventure. (Well, the song only said the first part, but still.)

So that took care of half of Quentin's list. The other part was a little trickier – how to have all sorts of quiet time without losing any more of his mind than absolutely necessary. He needed something he could do on his own time, something outside his familiar mental grooves of reading and binge-watching _Critical Role_. Maybe he should learn to – make something? Get in touch with his inner Ron Swanson and physically make a thing? Quentin kind of liked the idea as an abstraction, but nothing he thought of hit him quite right. His new place didn't really have room to set up a woodshop or whatever inside it anyway. He could – learn to cook? He knew how to feed himself, but maybe he could learn – French cooking, or sushi or something. But it was depressing when he thought about sitting down to eat fancy cooking all by himself, so maybe not. He could take up the guitar – the finger dexterity he'd built up over all the years of close-up magic would probably give him an advantage there – but that was really kind of pretentious, wasn't it? What was he going to do, start a fucking band? Play Wonderwall for his cat?

He'd almost resigned himself to just staving off boredom and unwanted introspection through endless media consumption as per usual when, almost out of nowhere, he remembered Dr. Eliza saying to him _there's nothing wrong with using stories to make sense of your reality; what do you think art is for?_

Quentin's not an artist, not by any means. But he does love stories, and he does find that reality needs a lot of help if it ever plans to make any kind of sense.

So in March of 2019, Quentin ordered a book off of Amazon called _Writing 21_ _st_ _Century Fiction: High Impact Techniques for Exceptional Storytelling_ , and he flipped the page on his journal and wrote across the top of the fresh page _Violet and Jasper Cyrus were twins, but they didn't know it, because one of them had been raised by their father and the other by the Crown Prince of Dragons_.

That line wasn't very good and it didn't even make the first full draft, but of all the people that Quentin discovered and fell in love with in 2019, he always privately remembered Vi and Jaz as the first.

By March of 2020 when Quentin went back into the hospital, he only had about 35,000 words written. It seemed like not a lot to show for a whole year's worth of work, but – he'd had a lot of other things going on. That year.

By March of 2021, Quentin devoted his spring break to an absolutely batshit full-court press toward the end of the book. He slept maybe twenty hours over nine days, and he wrote and he wrote and he wrote, and he got all the way to the end of his first draft. It was 90,000 words and it was – terrible, it was just not good at all, rambling and sloppily plotted and alternately melodramatic and twee. He hated every goddamn line of it, and when he finished at four o'clock on Saturday morning he slammed his laptop closed and curled into the corner of the couch and wept in exhaustion and relief and – yeah, mostly exhaustion. He cried himself to sleep, wondering why the fuck he ever thought this piece of shit was going to be _therapeutic_.

He woke up a few hours later to the smell of coffee and waffles, and even before he opened his eyes he was smiling, his thoughts a hazy, sleepy wash of _it's done, I did it_ and _Eliot's home_.

Quentin was in a pretty good place that year, for once. Maybe the stupid fucking thing was therapeutic after all.

He printed the manuscript out and put it into a project binder, and he spent the summer reading over it and over it. He read the stupid book every time he had a spare minute – every time Eliot was at the theater or Teddy was at day camp or Quentin just had a spare moment when he couldn't sleep. He must've read through it a hundred times in the summer of 2021, and he filled every page with edits and errata and the occasional stern Note to Self. He turned every single page blood red with questions and complaints and proofreading and flashes of insight, and one time when Margo glanced over his shoulder at it she said, “Fuck me running, Coldwater, what is this serial killer bullshit?”

“It's a charming fucking middle-grade fantasy about the power of friendship,” he answered dryly.

“Well, it looks like a charming fucking _manifesto_ ,” she said. “If you get arrested for terrorism or some shit, don't think I'm testifying on your behalf.”

“Bambi, do you mind?” he said tersely. “I'm literally in the middle of something here.” And he must've sounded convincingly stable (or sympathetically unstable? Wouldn't be the first time), because she just kissed the top of his head and left him alone at the dining room table.

By the time fall classes started, he knew what the book should be about. He could finally see it in his head as a whole – a whole _thing_ , an actual beginning-middle-and-honest-to-god-ending story. That version basically only existed in his head, but it existed. So he opened a fresh new Word document and he opened his blood-red manifesto and set it by his elbow for reference, and he started to type. Chapter One.

In March of 2022, Quentin finishes the twenty-fourth and final chapter of his book.

It's leaner and more focused than the first draft – not that that's a high bar to clear – clocking in at almost 85,000 words. Still too long, probably, for a kid's book, or at least that's what an agent would probably tell him.

Quentin laughs at himself a little as he backs everything up to Dropbox as well as to an external drive. An _agent_. A real agent would dismiss his earnest little piece of sentimental dragon family drama with a form letter, Quentin knows that. He doesn't care, though. He didn't write it for anyone to love but himself, and he – does. It's stupid, but he honestly does love this ridiculous story, this derivative world, these shameless self-insert characters.

It could probably use another draft. It could probably use at least one other pair of eyes. If Quentin wanted to, he could probably spend the rest of his life fiddling around with it, and he's honestly tempted to, because – it's hard to remember what life was like, before 30% of him was Violet Cyrus at all hours of the day.

But there's no reason to, not really. It's far from perfect, but it feels – done. He's arrived at the

end and Quentin can feel that in his bones, the familiar anxious ache of _endings_ , of mortality. The child that Quentin used to be would start over again from the beginning, would never let himself come to the end, to the cliff's edge, to the moment of separation.

Quentin closes the laptop carefully and puts his hands on the warm surface, breathing in and out. Books aren't life. Books end – books are _about_ coming to the end. Life isn't.

The man that Quentin is now is twenty-seven years old, and he needs to clear some space in his brain so he can start working on his dissertation. He needs this ending, even if it aches, so that he can live his life. His real life, which is (improbably, _impossibly_ ) a life that he – loves.

The ache in his chest is real, but some portion of that ache is – pride, he thinks. Quentin really thinks that's what it is.

He stands up and stretches, takes the elastic out of his hair and scrubs his fingers through it. It's not even that late, it's barely past seven. He pads into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of ice water, eats a handful of pretzels and a tangelo, which isn't really an appropriate dinner. He wonders what they had for dinner across the hall, and if there are leftovers. Probably; usually.

The door to Eliot's workroom is cracked, so Quentin doesn't knock. He pushes it open and then leans his shoulder on the doorframe, watching. Eliot is on the floor, pinning tissue paper to fabric with his airpods in his ears, singing something under his breath that Quentin is almost positive is from _Hamilton_ ; anyway, it sounds familiar. Eliot is so absorbed in his work he doesn't seem to notice Quentin, which is fine. It's actually really fucking cute: the focus Eliot brings to a project, the way he puts his whole body down on the floor and physically _works_ , his big hands manipulating fragile paper and tiny needles deftly, naturally. When Eliot cares about something he bends his whole mind and body to it, and it kind of doesn't matter – on some level it's all the same, sewing or piano, dancing or bowling, the way he strides across a stage, the way he cups Quentin's face in his hands – it doesn't matter what Eliot's current project is, it gets all of Eliot, and all of Eliot is--

Magnificent? Is that the right word? Yeah. Yeah, _magnificent_ feels right.

“Hey,” Quentin says, quiet enough not to startle him.

Eliot leans back on his heels and pops one airpod out of his ear. “Hi, sweet boy,” he says, warm but a little distracted. “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Quentin says. “I just – wanted to tell you, I finished it.”

“Oh,” Eliot says, cocking his head almost in puzzlement. “The book?”

The funny thing is, Eliot – who is Quentin's _life_ , who's his rock, who's as close to Quentin's heart as Quentin's own skin is – has never known a version of Quentin who wasn't working on the damn book. That's crazy, isn't it? That feels impossible, but it's true. “The book,” Quentin confirms. “I know it's – it's whatever, it's not that good, but you know. A lot of people start books and then never finish them, and I did finish? So--”

“Baby, it's not _whatever_ , it's fantastic,” Eliot tells him with the same stern tenderness that he uses on Ted most of the time, and on Quentin when he's being especially ridiculous. “Listen, I want to – we'll celebrate, okay? I can't right now, this is a commission--”

“No, no, I wasn't trying to pull you away,” Quentin assures him. “I just wanted to tell someone.”

“We will, though,” Eliot says. “Let me take you to dinner, at least.”

Quentin smiles. “Mez?” It's their usual restaurant when there's something to celebrate, the easiest place for them both to agree on; there are tacos, so Quentin's happy, and there are, like – _chipotle-pomegranate tacos_ or whatever foodie shit is in fashion this week, so Eliot's happy. It sounds boring in Quentin's head, the same tacos for dinner, the same place they always go, but actually he loves boring – loves having places that are _their_ places, a world they both fit into seamlessly, reliably.

Eliot is the man Quentin's never going to marry, but he's Quentin's _rock_. He makes the world reliable for Quentin. He makes Quentin – someone who reliably fits into the world.

“Mez is fine,” Eliot says. “Friday?”

“Should be okay,” Quentin says. “Anyway, I'll leave you alone, I know you're busy. I'll be across the hall, okay?”

“Okay,” Eliot says, but when Quentin starts to close the door behind him, Eliot adds, “Q?” Quentin pauses and looks back at Eliot on his knees. “I'm proud of you,” he says simply.

Quentin shrugs, feeling oddly shy under Eliot's warm, golden gaze. “It's really not all that good,” he says. “It's my first-- I mean, I've basically just been teaching myself how--”

“I'm proud of you,” Eliot says.

“Okay,” Quentin says, because what else can he really say? Eliot's not going to let himself be wrong about this. Not his style. “Okay, well, goodnight if I don't see you before bed. Love you.”

Across the hall they had pork chops for dinner, and there are leftovers. Quentin reheats one, topped with stewed apples, and curls up on the couch to enjoy the pure chaos that is Margo and Ted playing Overcooked on the XBox. He doesn't mention the book yet; he rarely does, mostly because he can't deal with _how's the book coming_ questions, those are fundamentally unanswerable questions because the answer is always _the worst, very bad_ , and then it's impossible to explain why he doesn't just quit if he hates it so much.

He doesn't quit because the power of friendship, and art and beauty, and he's lonely when he stops and nothing makes sense when he stops, and it's in him and he loves it, and that just – doesn't translate for most people. So he's learned to avoid the conversation as much as possible, except sometimes with Eliot, who got a tattoo inside his forearm last year of the carnation from the _Hadestown_ logo, covered by an arch of tiny letters that says _his kiss the riot_ , so like – there's very little that Quentin can or needs to explain to Eliot about art, you know? Or anything else, really.

Everywhere they go, Eliot gets there just a little bit faster than Quentin does, but that's fine. Quentin's just happy to be included on the trip.

When bedtime comes around, Quentin reads Ted more of _The Hobbit_ , which Quentin half-expected would be a little wordy and tedious for a nine-year-old with a generally not-fantastic attention span, but Ted's stuck with it pretty well even when given opportunities to switch books. It's hard to guess what Ted will find interesting – he likes _The Hobbit_ but not _The Dark Is Rising_ , loves Roald Dahl but not Diana Wynne Jones, Fillory but not Oz. He's endlessly fascinating to Quentin.

He's worth the world to Quentin, and in the end Quentin never had to give up anything at all to have him. It's enough to make Quentin believe in – something. Things. He doesn't know what, will probably never know quite _what_ he believes in, but the believing is real.

After lights-out, Quentin pours himself a glass of wine and one for Margo, who's texting intently on the couch, presumably with the same woman she's been texting for the last few weeks. Quentin guesses it's going well, because Margo won't answer any questions about the situation, and that usually means she's especially happy; it's certainly not a secret when Margo is disappointed. Quentin smirks a little at her while he hands over the wine, just to let her know he's not fooled, but he doesn't tease her with questions. That's not his style in general. He's just happy for her, the way he's always happy when Margo meets someone she can connect with; it may not be capital-L Love, will probably never be that for Margo, but she does get some kind of high off the attention of someone she finds suitably clever and desirable, a temporary glow that's not quite a crush, but isn't that far off, either. Quentin likes it when she's happy, of course, and even more he likes it that she doesn't mind him seeing this side of her. It makes him feel welcome in Margo's home, Margo's family, Margo's life. Which is kind of Quentin's home and family and life, too, but – well, their worlds are overlapping and intertwined, but not identical. Quentin's never really felt that his relationship with Ted and Eliot give him a _right_ to anything of Margo's, so the fact that Margo invites him into so much of herself, he doesn't at all take that for granted.

She moves around and puts her feet in his lap when he sits down, and they're both quiet for a while, drinking their wine and surveying their universe over 5G, and Quentin scrolls idly down his Twitter feed, but he can't focus on it. He keeps thinking about – about endings. Beginnings. About Vi and Jasper and that coffeeshop in Harlem where he gave them names and faces and a tragic backstory and a hopeful future, in the same notebook where he drew tidy, controlling lines around _I'm afraid I'm incurably crazy_ and _I'm afraid I'll always be alone_. And now he's – here, it's three years later and everything is different, every part of him is different, his brain and his heart and the way he escapes and the reason he comes back again.

Does any of it make sense? If you apply the right therapeutic lens to it, or the power of friendship or art or magic, does some kind of reason emerge, some pattern?

It doesn't have to, _rationally_ Quentin knows it doesn't – life doesn't require a narrative structure or logic or a pattern. He knows, but he can't stop, he's never been able to stop asking the question, like if he puts the pieces together just right he unlocks – something, something more. And that's not true, it's not real, there's no magic key, there's just – people sharing space together, sharing stories sometimes, going through good and bad days, earthquake years and years of relative silence, showing up most of the time. Being hopeful about the future more than half of the time. That's – rationally, that's it, that's what it all is. Quentin knows.

He doesn't even – really hate it very much at all, anymore. It's more habit than anything else that keeps him spinning in circles, looking for clocks with doors, and outside of the force of habit, he's really. He's in a pretty good place.

Margo puts her phone aside and yawns. “How's – is it Jordan?” Quentin asks casually.

“Georgia,” Margo says. “Mmm. She's a tad dramatic.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Quentin asks, because he's pretty sure there's more than one way if you're Margo.

“Undecided,” Margo says.

Quentin closes his eyes and breathes in and out. Books aren't life. When you get to the end of something, you don't just get to start over from the beginning; you start something new. “Do you want to, uh,” he says, his tongue feeling clumsy as anxiety and excitement twist together in his stomach. “Do you, do you want to – see how things play out with her for a little while longer, or do you want to, like....”

“Spit it out,” Margo commands him, not unkindly.

“We talked over the holidays about...you and Eliot...” They've talked about it before, or at least brought it up before, but this past winter was their first _talk_ , the first time they all three sat around the table with calendar apps and Google taking the place of tidy, controlling lines, giving them the illusion of security while they talked about the pros and cons of the second-biggest adventure Quentin has ever contemplated undertaking on purpose. That talk ended with _yes, for real_ and also with _maybe not yet, soon but not yet_ , and with the highly irrational consensus that they would all for sure know when the moment was right.

It wasn't really timing, Quentin doesn't think. That's not the issue. The issue is that none of them wanted to be the one who pulls the trigger, each for their own reasons, but – someone has to? And what was the point of bringing the last three years of his life to a satisfying conclusion, if not to make room for the next thing?

And Quentin is excited, he really is. Once in a while, he finds himself out of the box, on an adventure and excited about it, so – yeah, maybe he does just know what it feels like when the moment is right. Maybe once in a while he does. “You know,” he says. “The baby? I figured you – you wouldn't want to start trying if there's someone you're still, um, dating. Actively dating. Or, I mean, I guess you could keep – for a little while, there's no reason not to--”

“I'm not dating,” Margo says. “Not really. So is this--?” Quentin nods, because it is. He's pretty sure this is it. Why can't it be? It can if they decide it is. “Have you talked this over with Eliot?”

“No,” Quentin admits. “But, like – if you and I think it's a good idea– I mean, not to be like this, but – what's Eliot going to say? No?”

“Oh, Q, I've been a very bad influence on you, haven't I?” Margo says, pretending very unconvincingly to be sad about it. She shifts her foot, nudging her heel fondly into Quentin's thigh. “I would say majority rules, but actually I am the only vote that counts when it comes to the condition of my uterus.”

“Won't argue that,” Quentin says with a little smile, even though – like, obviously adding a whole new human to the family is not something he would really sit idly by and let be decided by Divine Right of Margo. They've talked about it, though. Quentin's ready, and he thinks Margo has been ready for a while, and Eliot-- Eliot gets there fast, when he decides he has somewhere to be. Quentin's not worried about Eliot.

While Quentin's deciding whether or not it's weird to, like – hug Margo (they've done anal, so you'd think a hug would not rate as a big deal, but, well – Margo), his text alert goes off, distracting him, and then he feels like the moment has passed. He pulls up the message, which is actually a photo of-- _oh_. “Oh,” Quentin hears himself say out loud, from somewhere outside his body.

Margo laughs out loud at him, which, fair. “Looks like I'm not the one with a date tonight,” she says. “Jesus, your _face_.”

Quentin flips the phone upside down on his leg and holds it there, trying to – uh, think about things and, and words and just, something other than _Eliot's legs, Jesus Christ_. “Yeah, I – um, I think he wanted to--”

“I don't doubt it,” she says. “Go.”

“Are you sure?” Quentin says, because it's kind of. Big, the conversation they were having. He doesn't want to just run off. “You could – I can text him back and tell him to come over here instead?” That would probably (not necessarily, but probably) put an end to – _that_ – but the nicest thing about a long-term relationship is all the second chances.

She looks like she's considering it for a second, but then she shrugs, reclaiming her feet and sitting up. “Some of us have work in the morning. Go, have fun. Just – hey, don't – don't tell him about this, okay? I kind of want to do it myself or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “Totally fair, yeah.” Quentin has never fully understood and probably _will_ never fully understand all the nuances of the Hanson-Waugh marriage, but he knows that this part – this hope of putting something into the world that they've made together – this part actually predates Quentin, and at its very roots, has pretty much zero to do with him. That's okay, Quentin doesn't at all mind sitting quietly in the back for this part; he's just thrilled to be included on the trip.

It's not until he's letting himself into his own place (he didn't hug Margo goodbye, but he did grab her hand and kiss her palm, which is more of an Eliot move, really, but it happened and it seemed to go over okay) that he realizes it's kind of fucked up, actually, to be hanging onto a secret like this. He's never kept secrets from Eliot, not really, but he tells himself that it's – more of a surprise than a secret, and Eliot loves those. It's weird, Quentin wishes he could rush in and blurt it out immediately – _holy shit, El, we're having a baby!_ – but it's fine, he can handle it. Hell, they might not even talk at all tonight; they don't always, when Eliot gets, um, _intentional_ about things.

And even if Quentin didn't share a single one of Eliot's kinks, he'd love that part: the intentionality. He pushes open his bedroom door, and his heart is pounding and he's alive with static electric energy, and he loves that Eliot does things like this, the fucking _production values_ involved with being Eliot's sexual partner, it's crazy and it's charming and it makes Quentin feels so unstintingly, lavishly loved.

He does, however, share any _number_ of Eliot's kinks. So that's pretty great news for both of them.

Eliot somehow takes up the whole bed by himself when he drapes himself just right, and Quentin takes his time crossing the small space from the door, letting his eyes adjust to the lamplight so he can take in everything about Eliot – the yards and yards of his legs in sheer black stockings, the artfully disheveled silk robe that slides away to reveal a hint of pale thigh and black garter, then drapes open above the sash as well to reveal dark chest hair. Eliot's beautiful face, his dimple and his long jaw and his high cheekbones and his soft, rumpled curls, and Eliot's eyes, too shadowed to give up the delicate play of colors in his irises but somehow more intense in the low light. Quentin's heart is still thundering, but he swallows and does his best to play along. “Well, hello, there,” he says, pleasantly surprised at the accidental huskiness in his voice as he comes up to the foot of the bed and grazes his hand over Eliot's knee.

“I got the feeling,” Eliot says casually, like they're chatting while setting the table for dinner, “that you didn't entirely _believe_ me when I said I was proud.”

“No,” Quentin says. “I trust you.”

That's intended to be true, not sexy. Once he actually says it out loud, Quentin thinks it's both.

“You really thought I would let you go almost a week without celebrating your towering literary achievement,” Eliot says, teasing and accusatory at once, like maybe Quentin actually did hurt his feelings a little.

“Oh, is that what we're doing?” Quentin says, letting his hand slide against the silky surface, wrapping around to find the warm back of Eliot's knee. “Cool, but just to be clear, I do still get my tacos, right?”

He knows he doesn't really keep a straight face when he says it, but Eliot growls and catches Quentin between both his legs, toppling him forward so that he lands over Eliot, hands braced to by Eliot's sides, the hot breath of Quentin's laughter catching and pooling against the bend of Eliot's neck. Eliot keeps his knees tight against Quentin's body, controlling him, and pushes Quentin's t-shirt up, running those strong, deft hands up the skin of Quentin's back, and Quentin's laughter turns into a gasp and then into groans as he nuzzles his open, hungry mouth against Eliot's neck. “Oh, fuck,” Quentin says, not caring if the words come out garbled where they meet Eliot's skin. “You smell so good, El, you're gorgeous.” Eliot's robe is already mostly off, but Quentin manages to push it the rest of the way aside, feeling out Eliot's ribs and the sharp little pulses of his diaphragm as his breathing quickens.

“You want me?” he can feel and hear Eliot say all at once, the quiver of his belly and the vibrations in his throat, and Quentin strains up to kiss along his jaw, stretching for his mouth. “Quentin,” Eliot says more firmly, settling a broad hand to squeeze Quentin's ass. Quentin makes a noise that's faintly questioning but mostly protest; he doesn't care about this, he just wants – his mouth on Eliot, Eliot wrapped firmly around him, Eliot closing the lid and turning the key to lock all Quentin's useless thoughts away for another night. “Quentin, tell me what you want, sweet boy.”

It's politely phrased, but that's an order. Quentin is very familiar with them, so familiar that it's not even that difficult, anymore, to obey. “Make me,” he says right away, nuzzling under Eliot's chin, nipping at delicate skin. “Make me take it – you – take you how you like it. Use me, you're so pretty, just do it, _please_.”

You don't have to wait on anyone's permission to have a sexual adventure, but Quentin _likes_ getting permission, and he happened to fall deeply in love with the biggest, most thrilling sexual adventure he's ever encountered, so that's pretty cool.

Eliot makes a low noise of pleasure and goes a little slack under Quentin's weight, his hands sliding away from Quentin's back. “C'mere,” he murmurs, and then leaves Quentin very little choice in the matter, taking a wound-up fistful of Quentin's hair and pulling, closing the gap between their mouths. Quentin cries out softly into Eliot's hot mouth, because it hurts and he loves it, loves the helplessness of giving himself up completely to Eliot's artistic vision. Eliot is slightly more gentle when he uses that same handful of hair to pull Quentin's head back, and Quentin squeezes his eyes shut to keep himself from arguing, because god he wants to kiss Eliot forever. “Look at me,” Eliot says, and Quentin peels his eyes open obediently. Eliot gazes at him, his eyes resting so keenly, so carefully on Quentin's face, and Quentin fights down the urge to close his eyes again. It's one thing to be seen for who and what he is, but it's still – it's a lot, sometimes, the way that Eliot _looks at_ him. “You're getting worked up,” Eliot tells him, gently, as if he's breaking bad news. “You need to stay with me, sweet boy, okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin says. “I'm, I'm here. I'm with you.”

Softly, so softly it makes Quentin shudder, Eliot strokes his thumb over Quentin's eyebrow, before he lifts his head to peck a sweet little kiss against the corner of Quentin's mouth. “Mine,” he says, and all Quentin can do is nod. Eliot kisses him again, a little better, but still not at all the way Quentin wants it, before he says, “Take all your clothes off and get on your knees.”

Quentin does it, and he's not even aware of the fact that Eliot's watching anymore. He's back to zoning out on Eliot's gorgeous long body, on the way the black straps of his garter belt and the silver clips holding up his stockings transform natural beauty into _art_ , Eliot's highly tactile form of art. Quentin kneels down between his legs, his face inches from where Eliot's cock stretches out his black mesh briefs, and he fights his every instinct to put his mouth on it and he looks up toward Eliot's face, waiting to be told what to do. Eliot threads the fingers of one hand idly through the hair at the crown of Quentin's head and – makes him wait for it.

That's okay, Quentin can. He can do that. Waiting hurts and he loves it.

“Yes,” Eliot sighs, when he knows what Quentin is doing, what Quentin does for him. “Oh, you're so sweet. Now get me good and wet.” He doesn't give Quentin much choice about obeying that order, either. Quentin doesn't want one.

With Eliot's hand controlling him, it's so easy to let his mouth go slack, to press against the mesh covering the root of Eliot's cock, licking and sucking mindlessly until he's drooling all over his own chin, the soaked fabric clinging tighter to the shape of Eliot's thick cock. Eliot groans approvingly, rolling his hips up against the heat of Quentin's mouth, and Quentin's cock has gone more or less untouched but he knows he's as hard as Eliot is. His mouth feels pried open but not filled, an especially frustrating combination, and he can't focus enough for words but he tries to make the shape of his mouth do his begging for him as it travels back and forth between Eliot's legs.

Whatever he's doing is working, he knows, because Eliot is grinding up harder against him, riding Quentin's face from below. He wasn't really given instructions about what to do with his hands, so he chooses to anchor one firmly to Eliot's knee and reach up with the other, hooking his fingers in Eliot's waistband. Eliot laughs giddily and squirms, panting out, “Fuck, baby, your mouth, god you eat me so good. I could pull my cock out and come all over your face right now, would you like that?”

Quentin tilts his head, rubbing his cheek over the soaked briefs and the hard line of Eliot's cock. “If you want,” he murmurs. He can't help glancing down at his red, dripping dick. What if Eliot doesn't let him come – like, at all? That wouldn't happen, that's never happened, Eliot's not into that. Eliot likes it when Quentin comes so hard he needs a _chiropractor_ afterwards. Eliot wouldn't skip that part.

Quentin wouldn't want him to. He doesn't think. But, god – what would it feel like? It sounds fucking excruciating.

That is not necessarily a deal-breaker.

“You're thinking, sweet boy,” Eliot says gently. How can he always _tell_ that? “Say it out loud for me.”

“I'd like it,” Quentin says. Fuck, what _doesn't_ Quentin like, when it's Eliot doing it to him?

Eliot releases Quentin's hair, covers both of Quentin's hands with his own and pushes them carefully off. “Sit up,” he says softly. “Sit back, let me see you.”

Quentin – doesn't think he's fucked up, did he fuck up? No, probably Eliot's just checking on him, that's normal, that's fine. Quentin sits back on his heels, shuffles a few inches away on his sore knees so Eliot can look him over more easily. Quentin meets his eyes once to show that he can, then lets his eyes drift half-shut, suddenly incredibly aware that he's naked, fully exposed. That is also not a deal-breaker, but he just – he notices it. “No,” Eliot says, elongating the word like he's thinking it over even as he speaks. “No, I think you'll be spreading your legs for me tonight.”

“Okay,” Quentin says breathlessly. “Yeah, if-- Anything you want.”

“Mm,” Eliot says. “Come here. Lie down.”

It's surprisingly difficult to get all the appropriate messages to his limbs, and he feels weak and wobbly like a fawn as he crawls his way up to the bed. Once he's there, Eliot takes him into capable hands, pushing him to his back, unfolding Quentin's arms when they cross automatically over his stomach, separating his legs just a little and tucking a pillow under his hips. Quentin is too wound up to say he's comfortable, exactly, but he feels – good. A little less tense, but not anxious, just. He's been holding himself back and it's so much work, it's so much work but he wants to do it for Eliot.

Eliot straddles his hips. The robe has fallen backwards off his shoulders; two of the little silver garter clips have snapped loose. He looks – debauched, otherworldly, _magnificent_. He has a vague memory of Julia teasing him back in the earliest days of his crush on Eliot, calling Eliot Dionysus, and the thing is, she wasn't – wrong, she wasn't wrong to think that Quentin saw him as something – well, a little more than human, if not entirely divine. Eliot is _human_ , of course he's beautifully human, but he's kind of – more, too.

“Say it out loud,” Eliot orders with a little smirk, but this time Quentin doesn't know if he can. Eliot is – realer than real, real the way a story is real instead of the way the world is. He's a portal, a door, and when he chooses to open for Quentin, what floods through is – sweetness and flames like he's made of wine, sex and music and adventure, all of Quentin's boxes smashed open and all possibilities unleashed, thrill and hope and _ecstasy_ , ecstasy in every sense of the word. He's by no means a god, but when he wants to, he can illuminate Quentin exactly like one.

Maybe Quentin can say all that someday, but it's far beyond his powers at the moment, so instead he says with all the raw sincerity he has in him, “You saved my life. I'd give you anything.”

Eliot smiles at him, a little puzzled but honestly not all that taken aback; he knows how Quentin can get. He cups his hand over Quentin's cheek and smooths his thumb back and forth, and he says, “You know I didn't. Nobody saves anyone but themselves.”

And that could be true, but it was so _hard_ , all of Quentin's life before, to catch and hold onto a vision of the future that was worth sticking around for, onto something satisfyingly story-shaped in Quentin's life where the middle mattered as much as the beginning and the end, and that part is so easy now. Not every part is easy, but that one is.

After a moment, Eliot leans forward and kisses Quentin's forehead deliberately, then reaches for the lube next to the bed.

They may be celebrating, but Eliot doesn't take it too easy on him, which – yeah, that's Eliot reading the room correctly. He doesn't skimp on lube, but he does keep Quentin in an unnecessarily intense position, holding his thighs further apart and his knees bent higher than usual. There's no way to relax into it, really, with Eliot's weight bearing down every time he thrusts, and it doesn't exactly hurt but it's exhausting, it takes both mental and physical effort so that Quentin is left trembling on the edge of the knife, able to feel every curl of pleasure unspooling through his body as Eliot's cock opens him up over and over, unable to fall into it and get lost. Quentin is gasping within two minutes, pleading _Eliot Eliot Eliot_ like Eliot will know what he needs (Eliot probably does), like Eliot will give it to him (Eliot probably will – eventually). Eliot's movements are smooth and steady, he's not being _rough_ , but he's making sure that however hard he has to work for his orgasm, Quentin has to work twice as hard as that, and there's a subtle cruelty to the strategy that is _filthy hot_.

“Please,” Quentin begs, well beyond pride. “Eliot, please can I touch my cock?” Eliot never really said he _couldn't_ , but holy shit with El in this cunning, predatory mood, Quentin is not taking any chances.

“Why, sweet boy?” Eliot says, almost singing it. “Doesn't it feel good like this?”

_Oh, fuck him_ , of course it feels-- On the shortlist of things that are unfairly awesome about Eliot's monster cock, right near the top is the fact that it's basically never not pressed up against Quentin's prostate. Or maybe it's not his anatomy, maybe it's just Eliot. Quentin grits back his frustration and keeps his voice pliant and pleading, just like he knows Eliot likes it. “It feels good, El, oh my god it feels so fucking good. Please, I need to come, you've got me so close, I just need....”

Eliot's hips pick up a little speed; Quentin can't tell if he's chosen to head toward the finish line, or if that's just the effect flattery is having on him at the moment. “No, honey,” he says, breathless. “Me first – just wait til I'm finished with you, sweet boy, not long now.”

It – god, it _fucks_ with Quentin somehow – it's not the first time Eliot's played it that way, it's honestly what Quentin expected when he said _make me, use me_ , it's what Quentin wanted, but he's still unprepared for the kick it gives him, right off the precarious edge of the blade. A messy flood of emotions rolls over him all at once, helplessness and desire and love and the need to be loved and annoyance and a little aftertaste of humiliation beneath all of it, and he can feel his trapped body trying to lift up into it, trying for more, while his vision blurs behind the sting of tears.

Eliot pauses, and Quentin shakes his head hard, pressing his eyes shut – come on, come on, get there faster. Eliot doesn't let him up, but he does rub warm circles on Quentin's chest with his palm, calling him back to reality with a low, lilting, “Q – Quentin, talk to me.”

“Don't stop,” Quentin grinds out. “Fuck. Don't _stop_.”

“Not stopping,” Eliot reassures him. “Here, let me see your pretty brown eyes. Open your eyes for me.”

Quentin does, or he thinks he does. Everything is still a blur. Eliot moves inside him again, slow and shallow, until Quentin catches his breath and says in an embarrassingly wavery voice, “I don't want to stop.”

“We're not going to,” Eliot says. “I'm still here, right? Right here. Is this what you wanted? If it's not--”

It is, though, that's the crazy thing. He knows what he asked for and he knew how Eliot would give it to him and he wanted it and he _wants_ it and everything is fine, or it would be if Eliot would just, like, fucking _finish_. “Eliot, oh my fucking god,” he says, thready and exasperated, “if you don't _fuck_ me--”

“Okay, okay,” Eliot laughs. “I'm gonna.”

“You better.”

And this time Quentin can get lost in it and he does, grabbing Eliot's ass where the wrecked black briefs are pushed down, bedsprings and the smack of skin, the smell of fresh sweat mingling with Eliot's curl cream and the hot bursts of breath over his face as Eliot fights for control, the power in Eliot's hands, the tremor in Quentin's hip, the fucking wine and light and wildness spilling inside him, flooding over, until his voice cracks and he cries out mindlessly. Eliot's fingers dig into his muscles while Eliot says _fuck, fuck, Q_ and thrusts faster and faster and then comes inside his body, and he's too full, too full of all of it, and he keeps crying and low-key hyperventilating while Eliot pulls back and jerks him off, strong and focused and weirdly protective, scattering soothing kisses over Quentin's chest and shoulder.

They stay more or less like that even after Quentin finally comes, with Quentin on his back feeling muscles he barely knew he had flutter in overstressed confusion, with Eliot propped up alongside him, softly kissing everything he can reach, combing his fingers through Quentin's hair to push it off his face. “Hey,” Eliot finally says, smiling his truest smile at Quentin, the one where his eyes half-close on their own. “What kind of day was it?”

“Um – good? It was good,” Quentin says. “God, I'm sorry, I--”

“No, huh-uh,” Eliot says firmly.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Okay, I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything wrong. Just, if I freaked you out or whatever, it wasn't, it wasn't you. You were great, perfect. You're always so fucking sexy, okay?”

“Well, it's okay with _me_ ,” Eliot teases, but then he leans down to kiss Quentin, and it's a serious kiss, Eliot's _I love you_ kiss. It's breath-stealing, it's toe-curling, it's life-changing – you know, the usual.

“I love you, too,” Quentin murmurs when Eliot pulls away. “I think, uh. You know how I can be weird about endings and – change and stuff? I think I just had a lot of. A lot of stuff today.” He can't even explain all the stuff.

Eliot's usually pretty fastidious about clean-up, and they've made a particular mess tonight, but maybe Quentin seems like he's dropping or something, because Eliot just puts his arm around Quentin's chest and his chin on Quentin's shoulder and refuses to budge. That's all right. Quentin guesses the damage to the bedding has already been done, and he won't care about the wet spot much until the endorphins start to recede. “Can I read it?” Eliot asks.

“Do you want to?” Quentin's not sure why he's surprised. It's just that Eliot's never asked to see it, or even asked much about it.

“Yeah, I do,” he says quietly. “It's part of you. Yeah, of course I'd like to read it, if it's okay with you.”

“It's not very good,” Quentin warns.

“I wouldn't know if it was,” Eliot says easily. “Are we all in it?”

Quentin laughs softly, feeling a little stoned. “No, you're not in it, I was working on it before I even met you. Julia's kind of in it.” Jasper isn't Julia, precisely, but – well, it's complicated. Too complicated to get into with his brain like this. And truthfully, the Dragonstar did take on some crucial changes from his original conception, becoming a little taller, a little more dramatic, a little sexier and a little more heroic over the rewrites, and that's not because he's _Eliot_ , but. It's complicated, okay?

“So what's next?” Eliot asks.

It gives Quentin a guilty startle, like somehow he's so open and vulnerable and so _Eliot's_ right now that Eliot might be able to reach right in and pluck out the real answer to what's next, which is _holy shit, El, a baby_. But he can't say that, he promised he wouldn't. So he says, “Next?”

“Yeah, like – is it a trilogy? Or do you send it to a publisher? What happens now that it's done?”

“I don't think it's--”

“No, clearly I know you don't think it's good enough,” Eliot says dryly. “But are you going to try?”

Quentin hasn't thought about it – not seriously. Yeah, he's fantasized about the cover art, and about doing con signings, and who he'd cast in the Netflix adaptation, but all that's just for fun, he never took it especially seriously. “I don't know,” he says honestly. “All I really wanted to do was – finish it, and then. And then read it to Ted, I guess?” He's fantasized about that, too. He cares more about that than all the other stuff, so. Hopefully it doesn't bomb in front of that audience.

“Hm,” Eliot says, running a playful finger down Quentin's nose and then over his lip. “That sounds nicer than reading it, I like an audiobook version. Think I could sit in on that?”

It's so much. It's so big, for a thing Quentin started when he was afraid of being alone, afraid of falling apart, afraid that his hopes and dreams weren't reliable enough to bear the weight of his life. He can almost feel the muscle memory of three years ago – the dry heat coming from the vent at his feet, the buzz of caffeine under his skin, the shape of the pen in his hand as he wrote _Violet and Jasper Cyrus were twins_ across a blank page, wishing for a family of his own with a longing and a fear of failure that were too massive and painful to face head-on.

“I think you could,” Quentin says. “Yeah. I think we could all do that.”


End file.
